


We Leave Tomorrow

by nhixxie



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Director Alec Lightwood, Don't ask why they just ARE lmaoo, Geologist Magnus Bane, M/M, Me: (jasmine masters looking out her car window), Me: I love AUs, The Writing Process: U need to research geology filmmaking and Icelandic topography, The amount of research for this fic is nauseating, This is just me indulging myself and wanting Malec in Iceland, maia Roberts - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 20:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhixxie/pseuds/nhixxie
Summary: "Why did you want to be a geologist?" Alec asks against the biting cold.Magnus laughs, and it's as warm as a crackling fire. Gulfoss roars before them, water moving in sheets of brilliant blue. "Because of this." He turns to Alec, throwing the same question back. "Why did you want to be a film maker?"Alec refuses to let the image of that warmly beautiful laugh escape his mind, and almost immediately he wants to grab his camera.He smiles. "Because of this."
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 54
Kudos: 134





	1. Maybe Next Time

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, welcome to my second go around on a multi-chaptered Malec fic! This was born out of this little tweet fic and just total self-indulgence. Wanted Malec road tripping around Iceland in a camper van, and nobody wanted to write it for me, sooo here we are lmao *NOTE that I am not a geologist, nor a filmmaker, nor a resident of Iceland, so please bear pardon the inaccuracies if you fall under any of the categories noted whoops
> 
> I'm @nhixxie at twitter if you want to talk, and I post things and follow #wltfic.

Alexander Lightwood slips his key card onto its holder and watches as the lights activate within his hotel room. With a tired sigh, he throws his duffel onto the floor, haphazardly kicks off his runners, and collapses onto the bed face first. 

He contemplates the idea of never peeling himself off his proned position, but begrudgingly reminds himself that he’s spent hours in an airport, and equally so in an airplane from New York to Toronto. He feels gross, and he is gross. Not showering would be completely irresponsible. 

Before he can even push himself off his bed, his phone rings in his pocket. 

Alec digs for the device, flips onto his back, and swipes at the screen.

“Hey. Any news?” he asks, stomach sinking, nerves fraying. 

Helen’s voice on the other side of the line is already feels apologetic even before he hears the first word. _Sorry, Alec. It’s a pass on Lionsgate. _

Alec stifles the disappointed sigh from his lips. Instead, he passes a hand over his face, fingers pressing frustratedly onto the inner corners of his eyes. “Okay.”

_You alright? _

Alec breathes out, propping himself up into a seated position. “Yeah. So that leaves us with what? Chestnut Ridge?”

_That and Imagine. _

Alec’s fingers settle at the bow of his lips, eyes lost. Chestnut Ridge Productions, maybe. Paula Wagner has taken on some out-of-the-box screenplays before. But Imagine Entertainment has very specific type of film they choose to produce; top-bill, big blockbuster movies—The Da Vinci Code, or A Beautiful Mind, very Ron Howard in the weight of it all—which means not so Alec Lightwood. The distance between his directorial style and Ron Howard’s is just about the distance between the east and west coast. Holga doesn’t align with a lot of the other films already made, no topple-the-patriarchy post-modern silent film does. Makes it a bitch to pitch to producers, unfortunately. 

_Alec? _

Alec blinks, back to reality. “I gotta go, TIFF’s in a few hours.” He straightens his back, “Thanks for the update.”

_No problem._ There’s a pause on the line, like a thought is being mulled over. _This is one of the best screenplays I’ve read in a long time. I want you to know that. We’ll find someone, Alec. _

Alec softens at the words, and it makes him cast a small smile onto the palm of his hand. “Thanks.”

_I’ll see you when you get back to New York. _

Alec tosses his phone onto his mattress and wallows momentarily within the silence his room provides. He lets the news roll onto him like waves, tries to work through what it means to have yet another studio turn down his prospective film. It’s been six months since the controversy that was his last movie’s cancellation, right in the middle of principal photography, and the media outlets had consumed the information like lions onto a dead gazelle. In every interview, Alec has faced the same tiring question—how does a film helmed by an Academy-winning director, made under a production company as big as Miramax, starring some of Hollywood’s biggest names, so thoroughly fall through the cracks? The question is exhausting, the same one every goddamn time, but formulating an answer that is meant to cushion the truth is even more so. Alec knows exactly why it happened, and the thought of it boils his blood like no other. The only thing stopping him from furiously answering with truth is the legalities of the contract Miramax will no doubt use against him like a loaded gun. 

_Alec, playing nice doesn’t automatically mean selling out._ Jace’s voice in his head almost sound hyperrealistic, like he’s standing right next to him. And he knows what he would say next too, all words he’s heard before in a tone partly annoyed but mostly impressed. _You’re a stubborn piece of shit, Lightwood. It’s both your damning and redeeming quality. _

Alec looks at his phone and checks the time.

He sheds the clothes off his back, turns the shower on, and mentally goes through the list of Canadian producers he needs to catch tonight in hopes of selling a pitch. 

He prays to the universe that his stubbornness gets him somewhere tonight. 

It doesn’t.

“Okay, cut!” 

Alexander Lightwood pops one side of his head set from an ear, and he can’t help the dullness in his voice. “Take five.”

The meticulously arranged symphony before him cleanly breaks apart. Actors release their characters momentarily the same way Michael lowers the boom he’s held precisely out of frame for the past fifteen minutes. Lisa and Mario, both operating separate cameras, revert back to their marks, exchanging a few words to each other under their breaths as hair and makeup enters the space, carefully fixing anything that seems to be misplaced.

On better days, Alec usually appreciates the well-oiled machine that is his crew in small moments like these. He peels back his head set completely, settles elbows onto his knees, and watches as a replay of the scene on his monitors. He barely registers the frown on his face until Maia, his cinematographer, claps a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Doesn’t feel right.” Alec mutters, brows creased.

“What doesn’t?” Maia replies with an edge to her tone, “The scene composition? Or the fact that the higher ups want us to turn probably the best script I’ve read in a long time into a trash romcom?”

Alec sighs, passing a hand over his face. “You don’t need to remind me. I already am reminded every passing second that we’re shooting this damn thing.”

“They all feel it, you know.” Maia mutters, looking out at the crew assembled before them, a barn in upstate New York their backdrop, “It’s not the same project they signed up for, not anymore.”

The thought of it makes Alec anxiously press fingers against the bulk of flesh by his thumb, up to the point of abuse. He knows instinctively well how the general mood of their production has taken a sharp turn down to the negatives. The day their executive producer arrived on set was the day they knew this film is going to be chucked into the wood chipper and spit out mangled. Nothing good ever happens during a surprise visit by the person in charge of the salary of every soul in the room. Everybody’s concern wasn’t unfounded—Valentine Morgenstern has taken the time off his _unbelievably busy schedule_ (his words) to tell Alec that the initial viewing of the scenes they’ve so far shot has concerned the investors. That it might be too ‘niche’ to ever turn up the crowds they need to break even. That it has little viability on the market. Valentine hands him a revised script going forward, even before he can open his mouth to say no. 

“Are you gonna step up?” Maia asks, “Where’s that patented Alec Lightwood fight I’m always at the receiving end of?” Their little harmless arguments from the small things like what deli meat is better to the big things like the cinematic tone of a scene is a main staple of entertainment for the cast and crew. 

Alec rolls his eyes. “There’s none left. The fact that I’m directing a glorified Hallmark Christmas movie is proof of that.”

Maia takes a seat on the stool right next to him. “This is shit film school didn’t teach us, Lightwood.” she morosely says, “You can have the best education in the world, intern with top-bill film crews, but the one thing that will always be is that money matters.”

“Very rarely does this business have good Samaritans willing to give us money to exercise our artistic visions.” Maia chuckles under her breath, “If it did, half of the Fast and Furious franchise wouldn’t have seen the light of day, and we’d still be making the same beautiful film you pitched to the board of directors once upon a time. Instead of this—what’d you call it?”

Alec help but quirk a smile. “Glorified Hallmark Christmas movie.”

Maia leans forward. “Doesn’t mean you give up the fight. They all believe in you, Alec. You’re the only reason why they’re still pushing through despite the bullshit politics of it all.”

Alec purses his lips. It’s definitely not too late to revert back. The script has been redistributed but none of the new scenes have been shot, and the ones the executives wanted redone they’ve been sitting on stubbornly for the past week. Maia watches the cogs of Alec’s brain turn like they’ve never turned before.

“What you need?” She says.

Alec breathes. “I need the telephoto lens back on the cameras, and I need that lighting fixed at the far end over there. And I need everybody back in position.” He hops off his chair and onto his feet, clapping his hands to catch everybody’s attention.

“Excuse me, I’d like to get everyone’s attention please.” Alec calls out, and everything stills in his wake, “Valentine can go fuck himself. We’re going back to the old script.”

A tumultuous applause breaks, and Alec can’t help but grin as he places his head phones back onto his ears. 

He feels something great on the horizon.

_One thing that I could surely say about Alec Lightwood even before meeting him is that he is extremely punctual. By the time I arrive at the unusually empty Birch Coffee by Flatiron, the acclaimed director is already sitting at a secluded corner by the back, nursing a cup of black coffee. He smiles up from the phone that is lighting up in a rate that is dizzying to a normal person, and apologizes for being so preoccupied and not noticing my arrival. I ask him if he usually comes to set as early as he comes to meetings, a good twenty minutes before the agreed upon time, and he nods a slightly sheepish yes. He explains how punctuality was something he had gleaned from his childhood upbringing, and how it had morphed into somewhat of a fear for him as an adult. “I just don’t like being late, no matter the occasion. Kind of sets up a preconceived notion of who you are as person even before you get to show it.”_

_Alec Lightwood had become much of a myth within the filmmaking industry. Plucked out of NYU Tisch School of Arts, he is wildly regarded as a prodigy filmmaker after his first amateur directorial effort of a short film, Seventy Years, was selected as one of the official entries for the Cannes Film Festival. Seventy Years was supposed to be a mere senior thesis project, never meant to take off as much as it did. But a professor urged Lightwood to submit his to work to the Cinéfondation Awards, which is the student film category of the festival. Lightwood ended up winning first place. Seventy Years went on to be a part of countless film festivals locally and internationally from then on._

__

****  
  
__  
**Variety: Can you tell us how your love for film came about?**

_Alec Lightwood: My mother is an avid fan of the filmmaking process. She’s a cinematographer, and before that she did a lot of grunt work; boom operator, gaffer, focus puller, runner, you name it, she’s done it all. She would play her favourite films in the background while she worked around the house, and by the time I was twelve years old I could recite dialogue off Singing in the Rain by memory. She also brought me and my sister to the films she’s a part of, really exposed us to the ins and outs of it at an early age._

** _Variety: Your sister Isabelle became an actress while you became a director. I’m sure this a common thing you hear, but there’s many out there who wouldn’t be opposed to seeing you in front of the camera instead of behind it. What made you want to be behind the scenes?_ ** _  
AL: I’m flattered, thank you. But it’s always have been the artistic vision for me. There’s nothing like having the picture of a story in your head, imagining it so vividly that a movie flashes in your mind’s eye, and then translating it to reality. That orchestration of all the moving parts to produce a cohesive, beautiful sound is what confounds, frustrates, and interests me all at the same time. Behind the camera is where I can find it, so behind the camera I’ll stay._

** _Variety: So no chance of adding ‘actor’ under your resume?_ ** _  
AL: [laughs] No, I don’t think so. I would make a terrible actor._

** _Variety: Tisch has been very vocal about their pride of your work, naming you as one of their most notable and accomplished alums._ ** _  
AL: Which, can I just say, is absolutely ridiculous. They’re putting me up there alongside Martin Scorsese, Spike Lee, and Ang Lee, that in itself should be illegal. I’m literally dirt under their shoes._

** _Variety: You diminish your achievements far too much, Mr. Lightwood. _ ** _  
AL: Yeah, I suppose I do. I might even sound a bit ungrateful. But there’s just no negotiation. I would never in my entire life put myself on equal footing as those directors. I’m just a brat with a pretty decent imagination._

_Alec Lightwood may be a self-proclaimed brat with a pretty decent imagination, but his accolades do not lie. After the critical success of his first movie, he went on to intern for Warner Brothers, and by chance meets Damien Chazelle, another director beloved by the critics for his works like Whiplash and Lalaland, who takes him under his tutelage. When asked about his mentor, the light in Alec’s eyes intensifies._

** _Variety: What was it like to work with Damien Chazelle?_ ** _  
AL: I still can’t believe everything in the universe lined up in a way that I was able to meet him, let alone be mentored by him. He is truly just an exquisite story teller, and even meeting him the first time—it was at the LA Indie Film Fest, he came around and watched a couple of the entries, one of which was mine—you could literally feel how his brain worked. He always has this urge to tell heroic, near mythologic stories of dreams achieved, but stripping them bare of all the golden trappings to show the blood and muck that exists underneath. Whiplash is one my most favorite modern films and the high and low of the energy from scene to scene just plays with you. You go from a kinetic, high-pressure atmosphere of Andrew drumming and being pushed to sheer agony by Terrence and then suddenly it just drops—it’s a comfortable family dinner, and suddenly you can breathe again. That kind of approach, one that is so visceral and emotionally jarring like you can physically choke the air out of the audience just by what they see on screen, is really the biggest thing I’ve learned from Damien. Our story telling might differ incredibly, but it all stems from one goal. [laughs] If I sound like a crazed fan, it’s because I am._

_Chazelle seems to be equally in awe of Lightwood’s directorial talents, as he helped the latter pitch an extended version of “Seventy Years” to be made into a full, feature length film, which expectedly does critically well. “Sequoia” and “Five Wildfires”, his next two films with him fully at the helm, garner attention from the Academy and the latter gets nominated for a few categories, namely Best Original Screenplay, Best Director, and Best Original Music Score. His first win comes at the heels of his 29th birthday for his latest film “Friendly Universes”, making him the youngest recipient of the Academy Award for Best Director, a feat previously achieved by his own mentor._

** _Variety: How does it feel to be the youngest recipient of the Academy Award for Best Director?_ ** _  
AL: Whenever I think about it, part of me is reminded of the work that has been done to get to point of even being nominated for that category. The cast and the crew really took ownership of this film and grasped the vision of how we all wanted this to look, sound, and feel like. They were in there, knee deep, ready to risk it all. There were many people I’ve said no to, many people I’ve had to go toe-to-toe with for them to keep their corporate hands off the pure thing we were making, and to have that award alongside Best Picture elevated the giant ‘I told you so’ we’ve been chanting back to the executives since we’ve started shooting. Part of me still believe that I don’t quite deserve it, but it’s healthy to have a bit of self-doubt to tether you to the ground._

** _Variety: What’s down the pipeline for you?_ ** _  
AL: Searching. The right producer, the right company. After Soft Foundations fell through the cracks last year, I’ve become a little more wary. The next one is going to be the done right._

** _Variety: Thank you for your time, Mr. Lightwood, and good luck with your future endeavors._ ** _  
AL: Thank you, it was my pleasure._

“Decent interview.” Isabelle hums, flipping the magazine shut and placing the magazine back down onto the table with a mild slap.

Alec only shrugs, a pair of sunglasses hiding the expression in his eyes. He takes another monstrous gulp of is coffee and fiddles with the bulk of his thumb, the ankle propped onto his knee jiggling anxiously. 

“Alec.” Isabelle says, rolling her eyes. “Stop it. It’s going to be fine.”

“Will it, Izzy?” Alec retorts, the edge on his voice unmistakable, “It’s been a year since I’ve lifted a script off the ground, and nobody seems to be willing to budge for me.”

Izzy leans back onto her seat, mimosa in hand. “Guillermo del Toro had to wait three years after Mimic to get The Devil’s Backbone and Blade 2 back to back. If he can wait it out, so can you.” 

Alec presses his lips together, unable to find the will to argue. He flips his phone to expose the screen, takes a quick peek, and flips it back when he doesn’t find the notification he’s been waiting for. 

“It’s Valentine, I swear.” Alec says under his breath, muted anger palpable, “That son of a bitch black listed me when I refused to let him fuck around with Soft Foundations.” His eyes soften at the memory of it, the sound of everybody cheering _Valentine go fuck yourself_ siphoning a small smile off his mouth. Even Jessica Chastain measuring up to the executives of Miramax couldn’t save the movie from cancellation. 

“You did what you needed to do with that film.” Isabelle answers softly, “And I would have done the same. If we bent over backwards every time executives threaten us with axing our projects, what does it say about our integrity in telling stories?”

Alec looks at Isabelle and finds eyes thrown to a distance, and it’s like he could see the memory curl its way back into her mind. It doesn’t take much for him to unravel what suddenly preoccupies her thoughts. There’s a reason why she’s chosen to return to New York City for the time being when her employment base as an actress is clearly Los Angeles. The headlines of a week ago remains imprinted on Alec’s mind: _Isabelle Lightwood booted out of recent project after scathing remarks on Woody Allen_. Alec has never been prouder. He has a clipping from the very magazine pinned on his bedroom wall. 

Two Lightwoods, too stubborn for their own good, too strong to ever hold back, blacklisted in Hollywood. 

Maryse would be half proud, half rolling her eyes. 

He takes another peek at his phone. Nothing.

“When did they say they were gonna get back to you?” Isabelle asks.

Alec cringes. “Tomorrow.”

Isabelle throws a hand in the air, eyes wide in annoyance. “Then why the fuck are you checking your phone every other second?”

“I can’t help it.” Alec mutters, head lolling back, brow creased in frustration, “Fuck, I’m going to lose my fucking _mind_.”

Isabelle grins, downing the rest of her mimosa. “That I can help you with, brother. Let’s go out tonight.” She pauses, “Also, I’m pretty sure the person who interviewed you was very much flirting with you.”

“Shut it.” Alec mumbles, his cup halfway to his lips.

Isabelle grins, flips open the magazine again, squinting at the text. “_There’s many out there who wouldn’t be opposed to seeing you in front of the camera instead of behind it._” She looks up at him, eyes dancing, very impressed. “Guy came in there ready to shoot his shot.”

Alec rolls his eyes from behind his sunglasses.

Isabelle leans forward, the grin on her red lips refusing to lift. “Was he cute?”

Alec may be grumpy, but he’s not a liar. “I guess.”

“Too late to ask him out tonight?” she asks, and the look on her face shows she’s enjoying this way too much.

Alec frowns, fingers fiddle at the handle of his cup. “I don’t like mixing business with pleasure.”

“Oh, come on, Alec, let’s be real.” Isabelle laughs, “You’ve never been anything but business. When was the last time you’ve had an intimate relationship? Jesus, a _vacation_?”

It elicits a cringe from Alec when he realizes it’s been too, too long for either one of those things. He’s never crossed state lines for any kind of sabbatical, nor has he been anywhere outside the US for anything other than the filmmaking process. He winces visibly at the next thought that plagues his mind, one that he realizes he hasn’t actually entertained for far too long. When was the last time he’s had just a good, simple fuck?

Mid-life crisis has come way too early for Alec Lightwood.

“Oh, Alec,” Isabelle sighs, chin settled on a hand, “You definitely need this more than I do.”

For once, Alec doesn’t argue. 

Instead he says, “Paul’s at 10?”

Isabelle grins again. “It’s like you read my mind.”

Iceland comes to Alec like a fever dream that won’t let go. 

It’s during his sophomore year at Tisch when he discovers the staggering film collection archived within the walls of the NYU’s Elmer Holmes Bobst Library. It is as if a hundred doors had been thrown open for Alec the moment he steps among the rows and rows of shelved films in formats that is as old as VHS tapes and as new as Blu-Ray. An online search of the Avery Fisher Center would show an equally extensive collection of digitally accessible media. It is during a search for a specific John Ford film he needed for the completion of an essay that he stumbles across Children of Nature by Fridrik Thór Fridriksson. 

The DVD cannister has been misplaced by someone else and is left sitting on top of the row of John Ford films stacked against each other. It is the first time Alec has ever laid eyes on a little sliver of what Iceland is; right on the back cover is a pristine stream surrounded by grass so green you could almost feel it take sunlight and give back air. An old man with a newspaper boy hat kneels over the water, drinking within cupped hands. An old woman standing by an old-timey vehicle at a distance, waiting for her partner to finish so they can continue on with their drive. Alec abandons John Ford for the day and watches the movie he finds instead. It’s a story of two elderly people, societally defined so heavily by their number of years lived, trying to find the things they want and the things they need. Not confused, not senile—just searching. By the time Alec finishes the film, it has wedged itself snuggly into his heart with no motivation to ever leave. Children of Nature pushes him through film school, forms the foundation of his filmmaking, and hovers over his shoulder, whispering in hushed tones as he creates Seventy Years. It’s the film he would go on to credit when he receives his first win as Best Director at the Academy Awards.

Since then, Iceland has always been the place he’s always wish he could see with his own eyes. A notebook from his early years at Tisch is filled to the brim with to-do lists and notable spots and potential budgets that would allow a broke film student like himself to visit such a place. Iceland being expensive is not a secret, but the problem has always been the money. It’s money for a long, long time, until it’s not; until it’s the break-neck speed of how he’s been flung from an amateur filmmaker just trying to find a job to a professional director making movie after movie after movie with no space to breathe in between. For a while there he wades through the business of it all thinking he’s still under control—meetings with executives, premieres, red carpets, after parties, crowds and crowds of people he’s supposed to mingle with but knows not the names of—going deeper and deeper until something collapses underneath and then suddenly he’s _drowning_. 

He would still be drowning if not for Jace and Isabelle pulling him back onto shore, sputtering and coughing seawater from his lungs. 

Since then, he’s been more wary of bodies of water. 

Despite everything, he works, continuously, steadily, just enough to make the films he wants to make, but not too much that it submerges him again. It simultaneously opens and closes many doors for him, and that those that are swung wide open aren’t necessarily the ones that matters most. Alec knows this, and truly tries, or tries to try.

Sometimes, he still pulls the leather-bound notebook out of his shelf, alongside his copy of a tattered, dog-eared Iceland guidebook he’s read many times.

And every time he does, he tells himself: _maybe next time_.

Paul’s is what you would get if you took you grandmother’s flower-patterned living room with the wing-back chairs and the vintage lampshades and mashed it with sprawling graffiti and a whole cabinet-full of all the liquor you’d hope to consume in your entire life. The first time Alec steps inside this establishment he feels like his brain is going to turn into mush, but as much as it is eclectic, it is quite private. After all, the Sevignys want discretion as much as any other celebrity does. 

Not that Alec considers himself a celebrity. Isabelle, however, is on a tier definitely more elevated than his. She need only nod at the bouncer by the lounge’s entrance, and one of the most exclusive doors in all of New York swings open for them to walk through. Almost immediately she gets crowded with friends and introduced to acquaintances, eager to mingle with one of New York’s best exports to Hollywood since Sarah Michelle Gellar. Alec smiles at the crowd that forms around his sister, a _fuck Woody Allen_ ringing over the pulse of the music around them which elicits a loud cheer from the room. Isabelle laughs openly, eyes perfect crescent moons of glee, but there’s no mistaking the glassiness in her eyes. She hides it well with sheer stubbornness, but Isabelle is still Isabelle—empathetic, soft. Alec motions to the bar when she catches his eyes, and they nod in understanding. They always meet back up at around midnight to see if they have more energy to go deeper into the morning. 

Alec ventures off deeper into the crowd, eyes adjusting as it cycles from the darkness of the room to flashes of strobe lights hitting his line of sight. He targets the flamingo-pink bar by the other end, and when he gets there, he settles onto the one remaining empty stool.

“Alec, long time no see.” the bartender says, and Alec smiles in return.

“I know, I know, I’m a workaholic.” He says, waving a hand.

Albert raises both hands in the air, laughing. “Your words, not mine. The usual?”

“Yeah.” Alec nods, and immediately Albert reaches for the bourbon and a bottle of bitters. 

“So what pushed Alec Lightwood, prodigy filmmaker extraordinaire from actually leaving the editing room today?” Albert laughs, a paring knife and a lemon in hand, “Soul searching?”

Alec snorts, taking the drink that is pushed towards his direction, “God no. You’d be lucky to hear yourself think in this place.”

“To get lucky then?” Albert says nonchalantly, and it doesn’t even remotely surprise Alec. He’s known Albert for a quite a while, and being probably the oldest working bartender in New York means he has no time to beat around the bush. Alec idly wonders mid-sip if he could ever rock greying hair the way Albert does.

“I don’t know.” Alec says with no gusto behind his words at all, and it’s Albert’s turn to snort.

“God, good-looking people are so annoying.”

Alec chokes on his drink. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“Jesus, Alec, have some damn interest!” Albert urges, a hand gesturing in the air, “You may have an Oscar, and you may have a face that’s easy on the eyes, but you’re also just another single thirty something wanting to find someone to go home with.”

“Twenty-something.” Alec says seriously.

“Dear, you can’t call yourself ‘twenty-something’ anymore when you’re about to turn thirty.”

“Fine, fine, jesus Albert!” Alec says, eyes wide, “If I wanted to get roasted tonight I would’ve gone to the comedy club across the street.”

Albert leans onto the bar counter with an elbow, “Now, if you look to your left, you’ll find a perfectly good-looking man who’s been trying to catch your eye the moment you got here.”

Alec diverts his gaze and sees who Albert is talking about, nice smile, friendly eyes, sweeping black hair, nursing a tumbler of something all alone. He works the inside of his bottom lip between his teeth. “What’s he drinking?”

“Moscow mule.”

“Send another one from me.” Alec mutters, taking another sip of his drink for extra measure. 

Albert grins, already half-way done. “Atta boy.”

“Is it any good?”

Alec tries not to wince. Could’ve been better, but not completely inadequate of a conversation starter, all things considered. It’s been a while since he’s made the first move, and he realizes just how annoying it is that Albert always tend to be right.

The man with nice eyes smiles, body opening up towards him as he adjusts in his seat to face him. He’s dressed simply, no designer prints on his clothes, no thousand-dollar watch circling his wrist, just a nicely tailored shirt and pants that fit right. Alec feels refreshed just looking at him.

“It’s alright.” He says, eyes bright, “Is any type of alcoholic drink actually delicious?”

The commentary actually elicits a true laugh from Alec. “No, I suppose not. I guess it’s the same for coffee.”

“Now you’ve just crossed the line.” Nice eyes tries to say seriously, but the teasing gleam in the way he looks at Alec expresses otherwise.

Alec chuckles, another true one. “I definitely didn’t expect to be defending my stance on caffeine tonight.”

Nice eyes smiles, head slanted to the side, curiously staring. “What did you expect?”

Alec diverts his eyes onto his glass, fingernails tapping at the surface. “A decent conversation, maybe?”

“If you really mean that,” Nice eyes says, an unusually soft, unpretentious smile on his mouth that Alec hasn’t seen in a long time, “And you must tell me if you don’t, I won’t be offended if you’d rather find company elsewhere—I know a good spot for decent conversations.”

Alec looks, _really_ looks at who he’s talking to, tries to peel back the soft smiles and disarming eyes in search for anything remotely disingenuous. Any small sign of dishonesty, because Alec has had his fair share of people trying to use him for their own personal designs—but comes back empty handed. 

“Don’t feel obliged.” He says, smiling, “You’re always free to go.”

Alec can’t help it. He grins. “I don’t go wandering around with strangers. So, let me fix that.” He extends a hand. “Alexander.”

Nice eyes laughs, his handshake a firm grasp. “Magnus.”

“Magnus.” Alec repeats, the sound of it foreign on his tongue, but it feels nice. 

“Lead the way.”

It takes both of them to prop open the unusually heavy door with a small block of wood they’ve found off to the side, but they achieve what they need to do. Alec breathes out, straightening himself up as he does, and takes in the view of Tribeca afforded to them by this little balcony jutting out of the same building Paul’s is built upon. 

Alec plants his hands upon the railings, looking out at the rows of brownstone before them, the famous Manhattan skyline their brightly lit backdrop. Magnus settles to the spot beside him, a respectable distance, and Alec finds it somewhat endearing. 

“How’d you know about this place?” Alec says, almost breathless, “I’ve been to Paul’s so many times and I never knew this existed.”

“I did the geological survey of this area before this building was built from the ground up.” Magnus answers, eyes thrown far away, “The engineer who helmed this project is a close friend.” He looks at Alec, smiling, “He shared some little secrets here and there.”

Alec turns fully towards Magnus, elbow leaning onto the railing, eyes brimming with curiosity. “Geological survey? What is that? Wait, what do you do?”

Magnus laughs at the onslaught of questions, and turns towards Alec as well, inching closer ever so slightly. Alec doesn’t think Magnus even notices the little bit of space he unconsciously decides to eliminate. 

“I’m a geologist and an adjunct professor at Columbia.” Magnus answers, “When I’m not preoccupied with either of those, I’m working on my PhD. And a survey is pretty much an investigation of the geology beneath an area in order to produce a geological model.” He grins, “That answer all your questions?”

“Jesus,” Alec says, the next bit complete word vomit, “You’re too cool for me.”

The words make Magnus laugh completely, and seeing his face contort into pure glee elicits an equally true laugh from Alec as well. “Well, if you tell me what you do, I can decide for myself if that’s indeed the case.”

The question makes Alec pause. He opens his mouth. “Struggling filmmaker. Small-time. Just starting out.”

“Sounds as completely breathtaking.” Magnus says, admiration in his eyes, “More so than mine, if anything. All I do is look at rocks.”

Alec shrugs, smiling completely. “Then all I do is point a camera.” He lets a moment pass in silence, a comfortable one unlike any he’s shared with others in the past, before asking, “What’s the greatest thing you’ve ever done as a geologist?”

The light in Magnus’ eyes brightens, like a memory is already being harkened into his mind. “Iceland.” He says, breathless in the way he does, “I went on a five-day trip to Iceland when I was still a student. I knew how geologically important it is, how it literally is the meeting point of two tectonic plates actively spreading apart with every passing moment. Volcanoes simmering ominously side by side with glaciers towering magnificently—I’ve never seen anything like it before.” 

“It’s life changing.” He shakes his head, smiling, “I promised myself I would go back. Longer this time.”

Alec pushes aside his own fondness of the country. There’s no need to share is own aspirations of it, because he’d rather gather Magnus’ closer instead; the brightness in his eyes and the longing in his voice. It’s much more beautiful than his. 

Alec leans forward. “Have you? Gone back?”

There’s some kind of glint of a whisper of a secret in Magnus’ eyes that Alec can’t quite decipher. “Soon.”

“How about you?” he says, and the glimmer of whatever is there dissipates, “What’s the greatest thing you’ve done as a filmmaker?”

It makes Alec pause momentarily, like it he hasn’t stopped in the last five years to actually ask himself that very question. He embarrassingly has to dig deep, farther back into his bank of memories, past Friendly Universes, past Five Wildfires, past Sequoia and Seventy Years—until he’s met with the image of the very first time he’s held a camera in his tiny hands. “It was this little video I shot of my mom.” Alec says, hands gently gesturing in front of him like he has the same old camera within it, “It was my first camera, those old camcorders you need mini tapes for. I was playing around with it and caught a shot of her gardening by the balcony with the sun like a halo around her sun hat. Singing in the Rain was in the background. She watches it every time she’s reminded of her divorce. And it always makes her forget, even for a while.”

Alec’s lips quirk into a smile, eyes distant, “That’s the greatest thing I’ve done.”

Magnus smiles back, one step forward. “See?” he just about murmurs, “_Breathtaking_.”

Alec’s heart knocks against his ribs, and any closer Magnus would feel the embarrassingly loud way its shouting _do it, kiss him_, so he hovers, a breath away. “May I?” he murmurs, and his forthrightness is rewarded by a gentle nod.

“You may.”

Alec closes whatever distance remains between them and presses lips against lips, chaste in its beginnings, until Magnus lets his mouth fall open, mouths softly catching, tongues touching in gentle cycles. Alec’s fingers skim Magnus’ waist, up the plane of the shirt on his chest until his palm rests against the upslope of his neck, gently pressing, as Magnus’ touch grazes his chest. They lose themselves within that stretch of borrowed time, breathless and panting but refusing to disrupt the perfect alignment of their bodies flush against each other. Alec pulls back softly, momentarily, and Magnus gives chase, chuckling under his breath.

“Can I take you out? A proper date.” Alec asks like the breath is knocked clean from his lungs, “Before anything else.”

There’s something in the smile Magnus gives him, and only the thumb that tenderly sweeps over Alec’s cheek makes him momentarily forget. “I can’t.”

Alec sighs, catching Magnus mouth into another kiss which he returns wholeheartedly. Alec’s fingers splay themselves against the short buzz of hair at the base of Magnus’ neck. “You can’t or you won’t? Be honest.”

Magnus’ palm presses intimately against Alec’s cheek, an apologetic caress. “I can’t.” he murmurs, “I leave New York tomorrow. For a long while.”

Alec breathes out, closing his eyes momentarily, disappointment rolling off his shoulders in waves. He holds the hand that touches his cheek and intertwines fingers upon fingers. “That sucks.” He sighs, as he looks into the same nice eyes he had caught from across the bar earlier on that night, “And here I thought I finally found someone I like.”

Magnus tugs Alec into another kiss and Alec takes as much as Magnus gives him, longing, lingering. When they finally part, Magnus smiles up at him and Alec feels like the sun is rising on the horizon. Alec takes Magnus’ hand, deposits a piece of paper in the well of his palm. 

“If you find yourself back in New York sooner than expected.” He chuckles under his breath, “I was just going to slip this with the drink I sent you. But the bartender threatened to kick my ass if I didn’t come up and say hi.”

Magnus chuckles. “Albert’s always right.”

Alec laughs back, shaking his head. “I’m beginning to see that now.”

They leave the balcony and head back to Paul’s, and when the hum of loud music fills the air and familiar glare of the strobe lights meets their eyes, the finality of it becomes even clearer. 

Magnus gives Alec one last kiss, a parting one on the cheek. He smiles that sunlit smile. 

“It was nice meeting you, Alexander.”

Alec presses his lips together, a small smile, but true. “You too, Magnus.”

They walk away. 

The next day comes, and Helen calls with words that threatens to wash Alec over like a roaring wave.

_Chestnut Ridge and Imagine both said no. I’m sorry, Alec. _

It takes everything to stay afloat. 

Alec wakes up with the sun splaying warmth against his face.

He grimaces, eyes wincing at the brightness that blinds him momentarily, and pushes himself up to a seated position with an annoyed grunt. He traces the ray of sunshine from the little sliver of space allowed by his drawn curtains. Passing a hand over his face, he makes the decision to start his day. 

A quick brush of the teeth and wash of the face straightens him out nicely, his previous annoyance slowly coming off, the tension that knots his shoulders releasing itself. He fiddles with his espresso machine, tamping ground coffee onto the portafilter and attaching it onto its holder. A buzzing sound fills the air as he turns the knob that makes coffee drip steadily into his cup. He doesn’t bother with milk and takes his coffee black like he usually does.

He pads across his flat and looks out the window, idly watching as the everything moves in different directions in the street directly below him. Eight in the morning is already late in New York; there’s already a cacophony of pedestrians pounding the pavement, little food stands selling their wares, taxis blaring their angry horns at whomever they please. Alec usually is a part of this almost orchestral wall of sound. 

He’d be awake at five thirty, because that’s the type of person that he is. He goes through the call sheet as he makes himself a cup of coffee, and a shower goes immediately after. By six o’clock he’d be in front of his laptop, checking e-mails and sending ones that need to reach cast and crew before prep starts on set. By six fifteen he needs to be out the door and into a taxi on his way to the staging room. A meeting with the first AD occurs by the time his feet hit the floor. By seven thirty, the conversations that need to be had with the DP regarding the scenes that need to be shot should’ve been had. Eight o’clock is call time, and everything picks up like a train in motion with hair and makeup, wardrobe, and special effects coming together. Eight thirty hits and Alec would be escorting his actors and actresses to set, small talk within the crevices of time available, but mostly running through the scenes and what he expects of them. By nine o’clock Alec would be walking through base camp, making sure every moving part of the giant machine he’s running is where it needs to be. Nine thirty is where Alec will be blocking his actors, and by ten o’clock he would’ve done another check with his AD and DP about scene compositions and everything else that needs to be checked—and then, finally, he settles on his seat behind the monitors. 

He gives his cast and crew a true thank you for working on this film today. 

He takes a breath for himself—and finally calls action. 

Alec almost smiles. Almost.

It’s been six months since he’s exhausted all his options for getting Holga lifted off the ground. 

And despite the insanity of the filmmaking process, the nerves you fray like live wire being exposed, the doors in his life that open and the doors that close, Alec loves it. He loves it so much that every breath he’s breathing where he’s not making feels inconsequential. 

_Wait it out, Alec,_ Isabelle says one day, _The tide will turn. _

Waiting is the worst part of it all, Alec thinks.

He brings his cup onto his lips and takes a sip, and he’s reminded again of why he shouldn’t buy coffee beans in bulk. Shitty beans make for shitty coffee.

_Now you’ve just crossed the line. _

Alec actually, truly smiles for the first time in a while. He’s reminded, softly, of nice eyes and a sunlit smile, and that kiss that could’ve upended his entire universe if he let it. He hasn’t received any messages from Magnus, and the thought of it curls bitterness into the smile on Alec’s lips. 

_It is what it is_, he tells himself. Some people you meet you’re meant to keep, and others you’re meant to forget.

Alec blinks, and turns to the bookshelf that stands by his window.

Setting his coffee cup onto the ledge of his window, he carefully graces a fingertip over the spines of all the books he’s kept for himself, jumping from one title to the other until he feels the familiar leather-bound notebook he’s been trying to find. He tips it back, pulling it out of the assemblage, and feels the weight of it within the palms of his hands. He pulls out his tattered, dog-eared Iceland guidebook, too.

He allows himself a small smile.

_Now or never. _

In the heart of Reykjavik, Magnus Bane picks off a piece of paper from his bedside drawer, the flamingo-pink of Paul’s logo stamped on the corner. 

He smiles. 

He slips the piece of paper back into his wallet.

_Maybe next time. _


	2. Maybe Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus breathes. Reykjavik isn’t going to have Alexander. And he needs to get used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome to the second chapter of Malec in Iceland. December was a month of many writing responsibilities, so unforunately WLT took a bit of a back seat. But it's here now, and it's more soul mate than I'd ever expected it to be when I started writing it. Thank you for the lovely comments on the last chapter; and if you want to chat, I'm @nhixxie on twitter and follow #nhixxiefic.
> 
> Happy reading!

Magnus has always loved this room.

He looks up from his spot by the door, and lets his eyes be pulled upward by the colosseum-like configuration of the Henderson lecture hall. Wooden benches and desks run from one end of the room to the other, curving slightly, each row telescoping upwards. At the front is a podium for the lecturer, a pristine chalkboard with a retractable projector screen, and a mahogany desk. Magnus has always found it interesting to teach in this hall; the sound travels exceptionally well, and it’s beautifully built, a remnant of the university’s older buildings. It is, however, very easy to feel like the entire class is bearing down on you from above. It sometimes makes him feel like a gladiator being gawked at by spectators.

He finds himself hovering over the desk, fingers splayed along the smooth surface. He remembers the stacks of papers that would build on top of it during examination week. Unforgettable would be the tired eyes of his students ambling into the doors and onto their seats. On the podium, he remembers the many lectures he’s gone through, and the way his voice slightly trembled into the microphone on his first day on the job. It takes a couple more classes to completely lift the nerves. 

“Your flight is in five hours.”

Magnus rolls his eyes fondly at the voice. “I’m aware.” He looks to his left where Ragnor Fell’s slightly haughty drawl echoes from, “I just wanted to say my goodbyes.”

Ragnor wrinkles his nose as he walks towards his direction. “It’s six months, Magnus.”

Magnus chuckles. Nothing like Ragnor Fell to be an asshole in times like these. “Your emotional range still amazes me, as usual.”

“I aim to please.” Ragnor answers, a gleam of childishness in his eyes as he settles himself onto a wooden bench, “All packed?”

Magnus visualizes the luggage standing by the foyer of his small apartment, ready to go once he decides to make the five-minute walk from Columbia and back to his apartment. His entire life squeezed into two packed suitcases, portable and wheeled through busy airports and tossed haphazardly onto conveyor belts.

“All ready to go.” Magnus answers as he slips into the seat next to him.

Ragnor leans back, the beginnings of a smirk already on his lips. “How was Paul’s? Last night’s foray yielded the desired effect?”

Magnus breathes out, cheeks puffed as he blinks blearily, “It yielded the desired effect.” He says sullenly, “Maybe too well.”

Ragnor rolls his eyes. “So quintessentially you to fall in love the night before you leave town.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Magnus mutters, brow furrowed, “Just—” He remembers green irises, hazel rings around them like the glow of a solar eclipse, soft smile, fluffed hair. His chest aches just thinking about him. 

“Met someone interesting.”

Ragnor raises a brow. “Did you have sex?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no we did _not_.” Magnus says hotly, annoyance and embarrassment warming his face, “We kissed, that’s all.”

Ragnor laughs. “That’s even worse!”

“How?” Magnus demands.

“Meaning it’s feelings. Messy, complicated feelings.” Ragnor answers, “You can’t even use pure attraction as an excuse.”

Magnus glares at his best friend, perpetually annoyed. “You’re really making it easy to leave this city and never come back.”

“You will miss me.” Ragnor smirks, arms folded over his chest.

Magnus rolls his eyes, no real heat behind it. “Unlikely.”

“Is this why you’re so morose?” Ragnor asks, “You’ve always wanted to go back to Iceland. For someone living out both their dream and fulfilling a career milestone in one trip, you sound awfully dejected. I just didn’t expect it to be because of a missed romance.”

“I don’t expect your heartless husk of a body to understand,” Magnus jabs, “But some people actually feel some modicum of sadness when they go through major life changes.”

Ragnor scoffs, “Please, your entire life is one major life change after the other.” 

Magnus thinks about it minutely and finds he can’t negate the idea. He hasn’t stopped to be breathe since the moment he walked off the stage on graduation day, bachelor’s degree in hand. From landing a job as a geology consultant for a Manhattan engineering firm while taking his masters in planetary geochemistry to somehow convincing NASA’s Johnson’s Space Center that he would be a fit addition to their geology department, thus upending his life and moving to Houston—it’s mind-addling to think that these events transpired over a period of five years. And with every in between, in the little slivers of time where one life event nears its end, he feels a blackhole of a feeling collapsing deep in his chest, urging him to move; as if any time unspent doing something is time wasted. So, shy of three years ago, he decides to haul his entire life back to New York to start on his doctorate. And as if this isn’t enough, he takes a part-time position as a guest lecturer in Columbia’s Goddard Institute.

_Do you hate yourself? _ Ragnor asks when Magnus finally calls him in his Morningside Heights apartment one morning to share the big news, _is there nothing else that could be worth your time other than education? _

_I want to be challenged_, Magnus says, and even then, he knows it is a complete lie.

_You could also just take a breather. _

Time to breathe is time to think. Magnus doesn’t want to think, not right now. 

Maybe, not ever.

Ragnor looks at him like his thoughts are exactly where Magnus’ are, following the timeline of events starting from the day everything changed, down to this very moment where they sit side by side. He doesn’t look at him with sympathy; one of the many things Magnus can count on him not to do. 

“I haven’t seen you look this forlorn in a while.” Ragnor says, serious now.

Magnus’ eyes latches onto the board before them, eyes somewhat lost. “What happens after this?” he asks, “What’s next after a PhD?”

Ragnor answers like he’s had the words in his mouth for a long time. “Nothing.”

Magnus is unsurprised with his best friend’s reply.

“You’ve been running since the day I met you.” Ragnor softly says, “And whatever you wanted to leave behind has always caught up.”

“It’s okay to be tired, my friend.” He says.

“It’s okay to stop.” 

  


Magnus stacks his second suitcase on top of the first and plops his leather-canvas rucksack onto the cart’s small basket. He does another quick check of his passport and travel documents, pats his jacket for his phone, and finds his small wallet safely tucked in his pant pocket. 

Ragnor steps forward, away from his car that is blinking its hazard lights, huffing. “This never gets the slightest bit easier, and I’m annoyed by it.”

Magnus can’t help but smile at his oldest, dearest friend. He’s been the singular source of _bon voyage_ he’s always had, as he is always the first to say _welcome back_. Whether it be New York, or Houston, or across continents as he leaves for Iceland, Ragnor has always been there, a fixed singular point to Magnus’ everchanging lines. 

“Good,” Magnus teases, “The moment it does, I’ll sue.”

Ragnor chortles the same way he always does, and Magnus gives Ragnor a hug, brief, but tight. Ragnor smiles small, hand patting at the bulk of Magnus’ shoulder.

“I’m still your PhD advisor.” Ragnor says, “We’ll talk frequently.”

“Good,” Magnus says again, blinking down momentarily, sniffing, “Good.”

“Go.” Ragnor smiles, “See you in six months, old friend.”

And with that Magnus wheels his cart through the airport entrance, and as he does, he feels everything else stay behind, standing by the other side of the sliding doors. Columbia, Manhattan, Houston, all of it seem like it’s watching him go, waving goodbye. Memories Magnus feels he barely experienced because of the velocity of how fast he willed himself to move, _his_ memories of _his_ life, but so easily it escapes him as if he doesn’t own any of it. It’s as if his been moving in a haze for most of the time he's lived. What has he been doing to himself for the past eight years? 

Magnus can’t help but think of the last time he’s felt some semblance of clarity, when he’s done something with every single bit of himself brought forward, and a memory arises. 

Green irises, hazel rings around them like the glow of a solar eclipse, soft smile, fluffed hair. A voice that is low and gravelly in the shell of his ear. Fingers softly touching the nape of his neck. Lips that taste like hard bourbon, but feels like the softest things he’s ever had the pleasure of kissing. He tries not to think about him too much, because there’s a power to that memory that could change the entirety of his life’s trajectory, but it’s _hard_. He is an unshakeable presence. The thought of him an assault to the senses, as if to say, _take me with you_.

Magnus breathes. 

Reykjavik isn’t going to have Alexander. 

And he needs to get used to it. 

With a steadying breath that billows in the air like a cloud of smoke, Alec Lightwood steps foot on Reykjavik, Iceland. 

_Jesus Christ_, Alec thinks to himself, breathless, eyes blinking up at the bright sky, _I’m here_.

New York to Reykjavik is a six hour and thirty-minute flight, and Alec, like the predictable director that he is, spends all of it watching movies. In-flight entertainment has offered slim pickings, but what they do have Alec has been vying to watch since the movies came out. He presses play on Moonlight the moment they take off. By the time the first-class cabin crew turns up the lights in preparation of their first meal of the flight, he’s wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. The flight attendant who serves him his lunch discreetly adds a small packet of Kleenex to his little roll of dining utensils, and Alec could’ve maybe blushed wildly if he doesn’t feel so damn emo about Mahershala Ali’s breathtaking performance. The lights dim down again and Alec watches Dunkirk next, Spirited Away after, which leaves him aching for a place only present in fantasy, and just to really hit it home, he opens his ipad and watches Children of Nature. The film that started it all. 

Before he knows it, the green landscape and blue oceans of Iceland’s capital have bloomed outside his window, already promising dancing lights and midnight suns. Alec tries not to ruin it all by having high expectations, but a part of him knows so clearly that Iceland won’t ever let him down. 

So he wheels his luggage out into the crisp air of Keflavik airport, camera bag strapped onto his shoulders and flush against his back, and looks around for his ride. 

“Alec Lightwood, in the flesh!” a voice booms from his left, and Alec doesn’t need to look to know who it belongs to. He grins toothily, a smile that reaches his eyes, as he lets go of his luggage handle and meets the man before him with a tight hug.

“Jesus, Luke,” Alec laughs, hand clapping against the man’s shoulder, “It’s been too long.”

Luke Garroway grins at him as they part. “Damn right it is. How was your flight?”

Alec remembers all the crying and sniffing. “Wet.” He admits, and Luke raises a brow at him. Alec chuckles in response. “Finally got around watching Moonlight.”

“Ah.” Luke says in understanding, “Well, what did you expect from a Barry Jenkins screenplay?”

Alec puffs a breath, shaking his head in disbelief, holding up a hand in refusal as Luke tries to help him with his suitcase. “Whatever I expected, he delivered more than I could have ever imagined.” 

“Can’t believe I’m talking about movies with Academy award winner Alec Lightwood.” Luke grins, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he leads them across the road and towards the parking lot, “Watched the live airing while I was in rural Slovakia, by the way. Spotty internet connection somehow held just long enough for your acceptance speech.” 

Alec smiles softly at the revelation. “You did all that?”

Luke nods, smile genuine. “Of course. I was—and still am—very proud of you.”

Alec has forgotten many things for the past few years, one of them being what sincere praise sounds like. The second, what true friendship feels like. Luke, in the small collection of time they’ve spent together in his first moments in this foreign country, has already reminded Alec of both. He is not only a very talented cinematographer, one that Alec has worked with extensively in the past, but he’s also one of the kindest people he’s met within his line of work. For the entirety of the time he’s been struggling against the entertainment industry’s undertow, Luke has been there alongside Isabelle and Jace, a life line.

“When did we last see each other?” Luke curiously asks out of the blue.

Alec laughs again, sheepishly this time. “Five Wildfires.”

Luke shakes his head, mouth still pulled into a happy grin. “That was three years ago, Alec. _Three years_. Where has the time gone?”

Alec huffs another laugh. “Away, like it always has.” 

Luke motions to the red SUV to their left, and with one push of a button the trunk pops open. Alec collapses his suitcase handle within itself and packs the whole thing into the back of the vehicle. Another beep from Luke’s remote starter and the doors unlock, and in one sweep Alec swings his backpack off his shoulders and slips into the passenger’s seat. 

“Thanks for picking me up, by the way.” Alec says sincerely as he readjusts the beanie pulled over his head, “I really appreciate it. I know you’re busy.”

Luke waves a hand nonchalantly as they pull out of their parking spot. “Don’t worry about it. And I really am not all that busy either. We’re just about ready to wrap. Tomorrow’s our last day.”

“Congrats on finishing without a hitch.” Alec says as the car slows to a stop by a traffic light. BBC Earth is right to tap Luke Garroway for their Iceland feature. Documentary cinematography is an efficient training ground for drama, which is why Alec had chosen Luke specifically as his director of photography for Five Wildfires. Aside from the fact that they make a good, efficient team, of course. 

Luke laughs as the lights turn green. “I wouldn’t go _that_ far.” He says, “Our fixer got injured halfway into principal photography and we were left to scramble.”

“Shit.” Alec says and truly feels the same way, because he’s been there.

“Shit’s right.” Luke agrees, and they merge into the main highway of route 41. 

“Did you find a replacement?”

“Not right away.” Luke answers, “Summer in Iceland meant there are double the people coming into the country, double the demand for services. We actually, and this is going to sound weird, got help from a geologist who knew the area pretty well.”

Alec nods, “Hmm.” He feels something graze his chest, a feeling, but today he disregards it. 

“Anyway, why the sudden sabbatical?” Luke asks.

The sun is bright but gentle on Alec’s eyes as he throws his gaze faraway at the question. “Things weren’t going anywhere back home.” He chooses to say, half truth, half lie, “I needed a break anyway, so I decided now is as good a time as any.”

Despite knowing something is amiss, Luke doesn’t push any further. Instead, he gives him another pat on the arm. “Doesn’t matter. I’m happy you’re here.” He says, smile small, “I know how much this place means to you.”

Alec looks out the window and doesn’t even try to corral the smile that fills his face from his eyes to his mouth. He’s thought about this place for so long, like a fever dream that won’t let up, and now the reality of it all is ever present in his eyes.

They continue the forty-minute drive to downtown Reykjavik, and for the first time in a very long time, Alec is happy.

Luke pulls up to a small apartment building.

“Good choice on location.” He says as he steps out of his side of the car, Alec following soon after.

“Thanks.” Alec answers, eyeing the brightly colored walls, “I’ll be hard to miss if you decide to drop by.”

The walls of it are painted a shade of orangey-red, a stark contrast to the structure that towers behind it, an edifice akin to the thin basalt pillars of Iceland’s natural landscape. Hallgrímskirkja is the first thing Alec has come to identify Iceland with upon his thorough perusing of his guidebook back when he was still a student in Tisch. It is an iconic structure, a Lutheran church with bilateral wings of concrete columns rising slowly until it meets at the center to form the steeple. When he got around booking accommodations for this trip, he knew he wanted to wake up to the sight of that structure bathed in sunlight. 

Alec swings his backpack onto a shoulder as Luke pops open the trunk and takes the singular suitcase out. 

“So, what’s the plan?” Luke asks, clearly excited, “Knowing you, you already have everything outlined and planned even before graduating university.”

Alec laughs, lifting his suitcase onto the sidewalk. He takes a moment, leaning onto his suitcase handle. “I’ll probably spend today walking around downtown. There’s a couple of places I want to hit up, and I’ve got a restaurant reservation.”

“I want to leave for the ring road as soon as I can though.” Alec continues, an eye squinting in thought, “So tomorrow, I’ll get groceries and some necessities for the trip, most likely go to a camper rental place, see what I can get. The day after that, I’ll hit the road. I’ll explore more of Reykjavik when I get back.”

“Call me old fashioned, but I still feel like you shouldn’t be doing this on your own.” Luke says warily, “Iceland is really safe, but nature-induced accidents don’t exactly count for crime rates either.”

Alec waves him off, laughing. “I’ll be fine.”

Luke looks at Alec like he isn’t truly convinced. “That’s what another friend of mine said too, verbatim. God, the confidence of you young ones.”

“Luke, I’m turning thirty.” Alec says, brow high, and Luke waves him away like he’ll always be a small child to him. 

“Well, come to Kröst tomorrow night, then.” Luke says, “We’re having our wrap party there.”

Alec takes a moment to mull the thought over, and finds nothing to negate the idea with. “Sure, why not.”

“Great.” Luke smiles as he walks towards the vehicle. 

“See you tomorrow!” he calls as he slips into the driver’s seat. Alec waves, calling out another thank you for the ride, and watches as the SUV pulls out of its parked spot and drives away. 

By the time Alec hauls his suitcase up the two flights of stairs to his apartment, he’s slightly winded and a thin sheen of sweat has formed on his brow.

_Jeez_, he thinks to himself, _that bad_? He wipes the perspiration from his skin with the back of his hand, noting to himself with a reprimand that he needs to get back to the gym before Jace catches wind of his current state. That health nut will never let him hear the end of it. 

He scolds himself a second time for even thinking about the gym while being in the country of his dreams. 

Alec scrounges around in his pockets for the keys his Airbnb host has given him, granting him access to his home far away from home for the next two weeks. He opens the door with a jiggle of the keys and a turn of the knob, and he lets his eyes skim the interior, pleasantly surprised at how much nicer it is compared to the photos on the website.

The walls are unfinished planks of wood slotted together and it extends along the ceiling, making the entire place feel like a cabin plucked from the outskirts of town and dropped unceremoniously within the heart of the city. There is a mixture of leather and linen-lined furniture arranged about, and a dark, faux fur rug stretches along the living room, framing the modern wooden coffee table nicely. The living room branches out into an open concept area to the small dining room and fairly sized kitchen. The bedroom is simple but nice, a queen bed with clean, crisp linens, and two side tables accented by mid-century modern lamps on each surface. There’s a large window by the far end of the wall, white curtains pulled back to the sides, and it offers a splendid view of Hallgrímskirkja when Alec walks over to take a peek. 

Alec realizes the smile that fills his face, and he can’t help but chuckle to himself. 

He takes off his beanie, hair fluffing about; shucks off his bomber jacket and tosses it onto the leather couch. He strips of the rest of his clothing with the intent to shower, because six hours in a plane is six hours too much. The water pressure and the heat that billows out into steam is a welcoming sensation onto his beaten body. When he finishes and puts on a fresh change of clothes, he peeks again through the window of his two-week home, a towel draped over his shoulders, one hand scrubbing it softly against his scalp. 

The midnight sun stands tall behind Hallgrímskirkja, bathing it with orange light even with the clock blaring eight thirty in the evening. He sees a man with a thick scarf wound around his neck walking the sidewalk, and he is reminded that he needs to unpack thicker clothing options for tonight.

He knows he really shouldn’t think of it, because it’s been such a long time, and there’s no use letting his thoughts meander around people he won’t ever see again, but he can’t help it. The thought ghosts against his mind in thin, cool wisp.

_Magnus would’ve loved this. _

Alec shakes his head slightly as if to realign himself, turns away from the window, and starts the irksome process of finding presentable clothes for tonight’s dinner.

Magnus Bane burrows his mouth deeper into the thick, wool scarf wound around his neck. He has his phone against one ear, a hand pressed into the pocket of his jacket. 

“Kröst tomorrow night?”

Magnus thinks about the logistics of it. He has two days to finish preparing for his road trip in two days, but then again, there’s really not a lot that he needs to do. He finds himself with nothing to negate the idea with.

“Sure, I’d love to.”

_Okay, see you then! _

He smiles. “See you then.”

Magnus continues his walk down the sidewalk of Skólavörðuholt, and the structure of Hallgrímskirkja towers behind him like an arrow pointing up to the universe. He’s always loved that church for what it represents; the basalt columns of Iceland, from Svartivoss where water crashes down from twenty meter drop off, to the sweeping terrain of Reynisfjara’s black sand beaches. 

Six months have passed in a blink of an eye. He has just about a week left, and soon enough, he’ll be boarding a plane back to New York. 

He looks at his phone and checks the time—eight thirty—and it makes him speed up, seeing as he needs to be at his destination in ten minutes. He can’t help but look up momentarily and sees an apartment building with tall windows, walls painted orangey-red, and Magnus decides he envies whoever has the pleasure of living there. 

Their view must be exquisite. 

_Alec, what the hell! _

Alec grimaces, pulling his phone away from his ear momentarily as an irked hiss comes out of the other line. “Morning, Iz.” he says, cautiously placing the device back against his ear.

_You were supposed to call me yesterday, you little shit! _

“I know, I know, but by the time I got to cellphone store it was closed.” Alec defensively says, one hand on the phone, the other pushing his cart through an aisle of cereal, “I literally just got a sim card this morning.”

He could already see his sister rolling her eyes. _Hello? Messenger, Instagram? Twitter? _ Alec makes a face at something on the shelf—it’s called Weetabix, which appears to be just whole wheat biscuits, which, okay, might be have to be what breakfast is on some days on the road. He grabs a box and tosses it onto the slowly building pile of non-perishable items. He spots instant oatmeal and swipes a small bag of it for overnight oats. 

“Fruits on a week long road trip, yes or no?” Alec asks as he leaves the cereal aisle.

_Do you have a fridge in that camper van? _

“No, just a cooler.”

_I mean, you can, you just have to make sure to eat it before it goes bad. _

Alec wrinkles his nose. “I’ll stick to dried fruit.”

_How are you?_ Izzy asks, and she sounds soft, the way she would always sound when they would be freshly parted from each other. It’s usually Izzy going back to LA and Alec waving her goodbye as she enters the airport’s departure area. But this time it’s Alec who’s gone away, which is probably why she sounds like she’s about to maybe cry.

Alec smiles. “I’m okay. Weather’s nice out here. Cool, but doesn’t feel like needles on your face.” He says, “Sun set at eleven PM yesterday.”

_Oh my god. _

“I know.” Alec laughs, picking a bag of trail mix from the shelf and dropping it into his cart.

_How was that dinner reservation you were so excited about? _

Alec doesn’t bother stifling the groan he lets slip upon the thought of the food he had last night. Izzy makes a vomiting noise in the other end of the line as a response to his indecency, to which Alec snickers at in return. That meal was incredible, and he’s been served top tier cuisine in the many award shows he’s had the chance of attending.

“Jesus, it was so good.” he says, disbelief in his tone, “I couldn’t believe it.”

_Must be weird eating by yourself though, huh? _

“A little bit.” Alec admits, “I’ve gotten used to it though.” He does remember a couple of bodies lingering momentarily as they walk by, as if to gauge if he’s interested in some company. He gives them all small amicable nods before looking away. He isn’t in the mood for company, not this dinner, not this trip. 

Alec finds a small carton of milk and adds it on. “And you, how are you doing? How’s Jace?”

_Jace is fine_, another voice says from afar, and there’s a scuffling sound of the phone being passed until it settles. _Mornin’. What are you up to? _

“Grocery shopping.” Alec answers, stopping momentarily to peek into his crumpled grocery list, “Then I’ll start packing. I hit the road tomorrow. Oh, and there’s a thing Luke invited me to, some kind of wrap party for the doc they just finished filming.”

There’s another scuffling noise and Izzy re-enters the conversation, and Alec knows he’s on speaker at this point. _Is it smart to get wasted the night before a big road trip? _

“Good thing I’m not planning to.” Alec says pointedly as he stands in line for the register, “I’ll be fine. I’ll have a couple of drinks, mingle with Luke’s friends, then call it a night.”

Alec could feel the sly smirk on Jace’s face from a continent away. He rolls his eyes, and he hopes the expression reaches all the way back to New York. “Spit it out.”

_Nothing!_ Jace says, tone high, and he pauses for a moment before continuing, _just that the last time you had a couple of drinks and ‘mingled’ with somebody you kicked down my door and threw yourself on my couch like a wounded dog. _

Alec winces at the memory, and as much as he hates to admit it, he did remember a fair bit of drunken moaning and groaning about a guy with nice eyes and warm smiles. And how he won’t ever see him again. And how he loves Iceland as much as he does, even more, maybe. And how he’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.

Alec hopes _to god_ that’s all his loose lips have divulged. 

“Yeah, no, that’s not happening again.” Alec mumbles, inching closer to the register.

Izzy and Jace chortles at him, and god does Alec hate both of them right now.

_Whatever you say. _

By the time Alec jabs at the ‘end call’ button on his screen, its his turn at the register. He gives the cashier a polite smile, loads his groceries onto the conveyor belt, and he hands the lady more bills than is needed to cover his bill. He tells the her to use whatever is supposed to be his change towards the groceries of the elderly lady queued behind him, and with a parting wave he makes his way out of the grocery store and back to his rented vehicle.

It’s a Volkswagen campervan, slotted just right between two other cars parked on his either side. He’s had an early start to his day today, and picking up his home away from home _away from home_, one that he’s had the foresight to rent online even before he left for Reykjavik, is the first on his list. He remembers calling up Helen in an embarrassingly early hour in the morning, asking for what renting company she had used during their own trip to Iceland. Guessing from the annoyed, discorded mumble of an answer on the phone, it was Aline who picked up. Alec had made sure to send them both something from Birch Coffee to ease them into the day. 

He climbs to the back of the van and finds everything he needs tucked in the trunk. The camper van comes with the basic necessities; sleeping bags, pillows, and sheets for sleeping. A small camping stove with a small propane tank attached to it, and an extra one tucked within the transparent box that also holds small pots and pans for simple cooking. He spots the sizable cooler off to the other side and unloads his perishable groceries into it, and the rest slots into the nylon, storage containers anchored bilaterally onto the inner camper walls. The container of potable water he’s taking takes a bit of maneuvering to position properly, but that’s pretty much it. All he really needs is haul his duffel bag he’s already prepared the night before into the van, and his camera bag too, and he’s good to go.

He breathes, one moment, with his back against the wall of his camper van and hands threaded together. He’s thought about this trip, planned it down to the very last dot since he’s left Tisch with a degree in hand, and there’s something so exciting and frightening about finally getting something you’ve wanted for a long time. 

Alec has forgotten what it feels like. To get what you truly want. 

He takes one more breath, and then climbs out of the trunk and into the driver’s seat.

He has a wrap party to go to. 

Alec parks at the lot right next to Kröst, and he would be lying if he says he doesn’t feel like an idiot pulling up to a party in a damn camper van. 

The vehicle is perfect for what it’s supposed to do, which is to be a small home for the road, but it truly looks misplaced in the rows of sleek cars parked along side it. Alec can’t help but snicker, because the thought of inviting someone over to his place in this vehicle enters his mind. _Yep, that’s my ride_, he hears himself say, and already he can imagine the awkward smile on his partner’s face. It’s ridiculous, and definitely a potent deterrence to any business other than strict mingling tonight. 

Kröst is all windows all around, and even from outside he could already see the boisterous movement of Luke’s crew within it. Everybody seem to be in very high spirits, as one should with every job well done, but he knows that alongside it, bits of sadness sit like rocks in everybody’s chest. Such is the nature of the work they do; there’s always a beginning, and there’s always an end. It makes Alec’s mouth quirk into a wistful smile as he pushes the door open and enters what looks like a bar merged with a casual restaurant. 

The place isn’t elbow-to-elbow packed, but the crowd isn’t thinned out either. Kröst is a smaller space, but it’s interior boasts of mid-century modern aesthetics, minimalist stools lining a cedar bar wall that supports a clean-cut, marble top. There are bodies in every table and chair he could spot, all of the faces Alec doesn’t recognize, so he moves towards the bar and orders a glass of what’s on tap. He’s only a couple of sips in when a familiarly heavy hand claps on his shoulder, and he hears Luke’s high-spirited laugh. 

“Hey! I’m glad you made it!” Luke exclaims, obviously already a couple of beers in, and it makes Alec grin. 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Alec says in return, “Thanks for inviting me. Hope I’m not intruding.”

Luke looks at him like he’s deluded. “When I said Alec Lightwood might be coming tonight, five pairs of pants fell on the floor.”

Alec cringe-laughs, eyes squeezed shut at the imagery provided. “Jesus, Luke.”

Luke snickers, throwing an arm around his shoulders, leading him away from the bar. Alec takes his glass with him. “Not everyday we’re graced by an Academy Award winning director.”

Alec rolls his eyes, but there’s amusement in them too. “You need to stop saying that.”

“The truth, you mean?” Luke thunders as they approach a table filled with chatter, “Never. Let me introduce you to the crew.” 

It only takes the sight of the two of them coming over to bring a couple of people to their feet, and Alec has forgotten after a couple of weeks of isolation how much he truly hates being fussed over. One would think he’d get some pointers from his own sister, but he truly cannot fathom how people of the same industry could think so highly of him. It forms a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, barely there. 

“Everybody, as you all know, this is Alec Lightwood.” 

He is greeted amicably by everybody in the table, welcoming smiles on all their mouths, and Alec returns it all with an equally kind smile. “Congratulations on wrapping up.” He says, “And thank you for letting me join the party.”

“Oh, it’s our pleasure!” a guy quips happily on his left, one of the few already on his feet, and Alec wonders if the wide-eyed _jesus christ_ in his brain is reflected on his face at the moment.

Luke motions to the man. “This is—” 

“Simon Lewis, hello,” he says excitedly, grasping Alec’s hand in a handshake, “I’m such a big fan! Oh my gosh! This is awesome! What’s the chance of you being here the same time we’re filming? Amazing!”

“Simon, cool it,” Luke says pointedly, as if this is a daily occurrence which Alec wouldn’t be surprised about. 

Simon finally lets go of Alec’s hand, grinning part happily, part sheepishly, and no matter how jarring that initial meeting was, Alec can’t help but smile a little. He reminds Alec of himself upon meeting his mentor—he was nervous, jumpy, and overly chatty too. Seeing it like a mirror image is quite endearing.

“Simon’s our writer.”

Alec nods kindly towards Simon’s direction. “It’s nice to meet you, Simon.”

The small gesture brings stars in Simon’s eyes. “I just want to say how fucking beautiful Friendly Universe is. It’s one of my favorite films.” He says the words like he means it, “So thank you for making it.”

Alec nods again, smiling, a hand pressed momentarily against Simon’s arm. “Thank you for being so kind.”

Luke motions to the man seated at the end of the table. “This is Andrew Underhill, our director.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lightwood.” Underhill says, eyes bright, and he smiles up at Alec with interest. 

Alec quirks his own smile back, because he’s cute, and why not. “Please, call me Alec.”

Andrew’s smile grows minutely. “Will do.”

Alec gets introduced to the rest of the table; Hodge the cameraman, Raj the sound recordist, Bat the production assistant, Sebastian the key grip, and Jordan the gaffer. He is also introduced to whoever comes up within the circle they form as they stand by their table, and soon enough Alec is enfolded into their conversation like he’s been part of the crew to begin with. His muscles loosen as he finishes his first glass of beer, his laughter slightly louder than what it has been before. The conversation somehow swerves into politics, and Alec takes the opportunity to grab his second and last glass of beer for the night. Izzy is right. A hangover isn’t the most opportune way to start a seven-day road trip. He’s flagging down the bartender when a presence makes himself known to his right. 

“Politics not your cup of tea?” Alec turns and sees Andrew leaning onto the bar, elbow propped against the surface. 

Alec smiles small, shrugging. “Gets messy, specially when paired with this.” He raises the glass of beer that has just been slid towards his direction. 

“Agreed.” Andrew chuckles low, “Cheers, anyways. To not arguing about toupee-wearing politicians.”

Alec laughs under his breath, amused, momentarily holding blue eyes against his. “Cheers.” 

Their glasses clink, and they tip their drinks into their mouths. The piney taste of the golden liquid hits Alec’s tongue, and when he swallows it cools his throat. When he looks back at Andrew, he’s closer, and Alec weighs it all in his mind; the clear interest in the way Andrew’s mouth curl into a smile, the point of this trip, the soul searching, also the stupid, mood-crushing van, but suddenly—_Magnus. _

Alec sees the image of him in his mind, so starkly there like an apparition in thin air—nice eyes, kind smiles, the almost soul-tethering meeting of their lips. It makes him take a step back, unconsciously, unwittingly, a crease forming on his brow, eyes cast onto the ground; all gut reactions. Andrew looks taken aback, already apologizing, and Alec is somehow lost in the noise of his mind and every word the other says is muffled in his ears. He tries to say _don’t be sorry, I was just thinking_; he could feel his mouth move but couldn’t hear it. But a singular voice cracks through the fog of it all, not even words, but a laugh—a familiar, sunlit laugh—and all Alec does is look to his left, and there he is. 

He looks _beautiful_. 

Just as beautiful as the last time Alec had seen him. 

Alec doesn’t as much move as much as he almost stumbles, and he hears himself say _I’m sorry, Andrew, I’m really sorry_, in a whisper or a mumble or a yell he doesn’t even know. His eyes refuse to leave the form of _him_ sitting there as if in fear of him disappearing if he does, but he wills his legs to move, hands gently paving a path through the bodies that stand between him and the man he hasn’t stopped thinking about for the past six fucking months. 

He finally gets there, his heart thrashing within the cage of his chest, as if it isn’t a walk from point a to point b but a trek to the summit of a mountain. He has his back on him, talking animatedly to someone, and it allows him a few seconds of clarity before pressing his palm against the bulk of his shoulder. He whips back, eyes curious, until he realizes who stands before him. 

Alec doesn’t know what to say, so he breathlessly asks, “Is it any good?”

Magnus gets off of his bar stool, eyes full of wonder, mouth curled into an astonished, open-mouthed smile. A breathless laugh falters from his lips. “It’s alright,” he says, voice gravelly, “Is any type of alcoholic drink actually delicious?”

A common laugh escapes their mouths, disbelief and awe and relief pinching their eyes and protruding the apples of their cheeks, and like two souls coming home they pull each other into a tight embrace, chins slotted against the crook of each other’s necks, the flats of their palms pressed flush against the planes of each other’s backs. Alec can’t help but bury his nose into the knit of Magnus’ sweater, and he can feel Magnus' mouth move minutely against the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt.

Of all the seconds within that stretch of six months, in all the places that exists between New York and Iceland. It’s in this dimly lit bar in the middle of Reykjavik that the universe decides, _it’s time. _

“Hello, Magnus.” Alec laughs into Magnus’ shoulder.

Magnus laughs too, his breaths warm against Alec’s skin. “Hello, Alexander.” 

“Iceland, huh?” Alec says, unwilling to let go quite yet, and he doesn’t care if there’s eyes starting to turn towards their direction. It makes him hold Magnus even tighter, if anything.

Magnus smiles, fingers scratching at the fluff of hair at the back of Alec’s head. “For the last six months. And you? Iceland, huh?”

Alec laughs. “I forgot to tell you. I’ve dreamed of coming here for the longest time.”

“You didn’t tell me this then?” Magnus asks in disbelief, and Alec shrugs happily.

“I was too busy trying not to ogle you.”

Magnus laughs yet again, into Alec’s shoulder this time. “You are ridiculous, Alexander.”

When they part, Alec murmurs with hands still pressed against Magnus’ arms, “Walk with me?”

Magnus turns back to his friend, a woman with dark hair twisted in a braid, nursing a bottle of beer. She gives him a questioning look, and Magnus nods softly, and it makes her cast a knowing, realized glance over at Alec’s direction. 

“Bring your jacket.” She says, a bit cheekily if anything, and Magnus shines her a grateful smile before snatching his puffer jacket from the back of his stool.

Magnus looks at Alec like there’s stars in his eyes.

“Lead the way.”

The air is cool against their faces as they step out of the warmth the restaurant and into the weak, orange haze of the midnight sun already setting. They pick a street and start walking.

Alec chuckles under his breath, shaking is head. “I know invited you out, but I don’t know what to say.”

Magnus looks up at him, eyes as soft as his smile is teasing. “I missed you would be a good start.”

“I missed you.” Alec says, no time wasted, no beating around the bush, because it’s true. Magnus smile grows exponentially, pleasantly surprised at how much Alec says the words like he means it down to his very core.

“I missed you too.” Magnus says back, an admittance, because it’s hard to believe he could feel so strongly about someone he had only met once in his life. 

It’s Alec’s turn to tease, shoulder bumping against Magnus’. “Not enough to give me a call.”

Magnus laughs, presses ever so slightly into Alec’s space, just so that their shoulders continue to brush as they walk. “You did say if I found myself back in New York.”

Alec squints an eye, cringing. “Poor word choice got me again.”

“It’s not poor word choice, Alexander.” Magnus says reassuringly, gently, “It was the right call at the time. I was leaving the next day.”

“You could’ve told me you were heading to Iceland.” Alec just about grins, “Didn’t need to be so cryptic that night.”

“Not cryptic.” Magnus says pointedly, fingers fiddling against the shell of his ear, still smiling, “Coy. And even if If I told you where I was going, it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

Alec shrugs. “You never know.” He answers softly, “Maybe I would’ve come to Iceland sooner.”

Magnus bumps his shoulder against Alec's. “You would’ve done that for me?”

_Yes_. Alec hums. “Now we’ll never know.”

“Cryptic.” Magnus teases, jabbing a finger into Alec’s side as they cross the road and onto a long stretch of a walking path right next to the sea.

Alec yelps, bending at the waist to get away from the touch, before digging into the dip of Magnus’ collarbone, eliciting an equally loud burst of laughter. 

“Coy!” Alec laughs accusatorily, grabbing Magnus by the elbow and their bodies meet at a common point with a bump, a breathless oof from each other’s mouths, catching each other within the circles of each other’s arms. 

Alec breathes to the tune of the moving waves that pushes and pulls against the sea wall. Magnus breathes to the beat of Alec’s chest heaving against his. Alec wants nothing more than to kiss Magnus where he stands, to heed the call of the thing moving beneath the cage of his ribs, to remind himself of what chance and circumstance have deprived him of. But there’s a wistfulness in the way Magnus is looking at him, like there’s something amiss. 

“Please don’t tell me you’re in already in a relationship.” Alec breathes, and Magnus chuckles, one hand pressing against Alec’s cheek, the other sliding down the plane of his back. 

“I’m not in a relationship.” Magnus laughs softly, reassuring. 

Alec allows himself to feel some relief. His hands settle softly against Magnus’ waist. “Then why do I feel the other shoe’s about to drop?”

Magnus eyes speak of missed opportunities and imperfect timing, and Alec realizes this even before Magnus speaks. “I leave in a week.” He says, somewhat sorrowfully, “And right after I defend my thesis, I have a job lined up.”

Alec’s mouth is dry when he asks. “Where?”

“As a planetary geologist at the Marshall Space Flight Center.” Magnus answers, “Huntsville, Alabama.”

Alec sighs, and then groans, and then drops his forehead onto Magnus’ shoulder. “I have so many questions, and so many feelings. I knew you were too cool for me, and it’s exactly this level of coolness that is taking you away from New York to work with what? Space things? _Jesus_.”

Magnus laughs, and Alec could imagine it now, eyes crescent-shaped, nose pinched, voice musical. His fingers play at the ridges of Alec’s spine, following the up-down, up-down bumps it forms along his back. “Not as cool as being the youngest recipient of an Academy Award for best director.”

Alec breathes, unwilling to lift his head from Magnus shoulders. “You know?”

“Alexander, please.” Magnus says, amused, “All it took was one google search.”

It’s those words the makes him look at Magnus. “You googled me.” Alec smirks, “How embarrassing.”

Magnus laughs again, and Alec is glad he decided to look, because thinking about it does not compare to seeing it. “So I did.” He beams.

Alec laughs again, shaking his head. _Come the fuck on, Lightwood. You can’t lose that. _

They finally part and continue their walk, approaching the sea wall that corrals the waves from licking the path running alongside it. Magnus catches Alec’s hand and holds it against his, palms pressed together. Alec doesn’t understand what they’re supposed to be to each other—what the universe thinks it’s going to gain by angling their trajectories in such a way that they would meet, but never stay. Alec doesn’t believe in destiny, or chance, or soulmates, but Magnus, the thought and presence of him, threatens to upend his skepticism of all of these things. 

_Do you really need to go to Alabama?_ Alec knows he doesn’t deserve to ask the question, someone like him who bears no gravity within Magnus’ world, so he doesn’t. He instead takes what he can get; the press of Magnus’ hand within his, the light foot fall of his shoes keeping pace with his. 

“So, planetary geologist.” Alec says, laying on a mask by letting his mouth quirk into a smile, and so at the same time betraying his heart, “Can you tell me about that?”

Magnus smiles back, and it’s stupid for Alec to have ever tried to hide it. Magnus sees everything like he’s reading an open book. 

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Soulmates. Maybe they’re soulmates.

Magnus would believe something like that if he was younger, dumber. Less tried and tested by the world. But he can’t ignore his experience, and he can’t ignore common sense either. But hearing Alec talk about the way he had been plucked from Tisch and thrown into the industry, the movies he’s cultivated deep within him and brought out into the world like beautiful flowers, the family he loves so much but left behind in New York in search of _something_ in Iceland—it entices him to reconsider. 

There must be something at work here, Magnus thinks, because two meetings shouldn’t be enough to for someone’s smile to burrow deep into his chest like it’s found its way home. It shouldn’t be enough to be breathless at the softness of someone’s heart. And it shouldn’t be enough to think about what a future with him would possibly look like. And yet, as Magnus chuckles at something Alec says, he finds himself giving allowances, only for Alec. And Magnus finds he doesn’t mind. 

But Alec doesn’t know Magnus.

A strong, whirlwind of a connection isn’t a substitute for knowing someone. And Alec is kind, and selfless, and affectionate, but he doesn’t know the complexities that come with being with someone who’s running away from something. It is exactly Alec’s kindness, and selflessness, and affection that makes him undeserving of being saddled with the baggage Magnus carries with him all the time. Maybe it’s for the best that they’re meant to only catch each other’s paths every so often, but never get tangled enough for their trajectories to meld into one. 

They sit on the edge of the sea wall, thighs touching, hands threaded like loose thread work. Alec looks at the waters before him, eyes blinking against the gentle breeze that also sifts through his hair, as if he can’t believe what his eyes are touching. His thumb draws lazy circles against the back of Magnus’ hand. 

Magnus allows himself to suspend disbelief. If by some orchestration of god or destiny or the universe makes it so that they are to stay within each other’s radiuses, they will meet, no matter the circumstance. And soon enough, Alec will grow tired of Magnus running, and he will find somebody who will stand in place, ready to stay. Whoever it is, Magnus hopes he’ll do what Magnus can’t. 

(Magnus rests his head against Alec’s shoulders, breathing deeply.)

And Magnus hopes this person doesn’t mind if he gets to keep Alec just for one moment more.

“There you guys are!” Luke just about hollers as they walk back through the doors of the restaurant, the warmth of it embracing them like hot blankets, “I thought something happened!”

Simon grins from where he sits, swaying slightly. “Something still might have happened.”

“Oh, god, Simon—” Andrew groans, “Ignore him. Is it nice out there?” he asks Alec amicably, as if what has transpired a while ago has long been forgotten. Alec smiles at him in what he hopes he can express is gratitude. 

“It’s nice.” He admits, and his left hand tucked behind him pinches teasingly at the fingers clasped with in it. Magnus just about _jumps_, and Alec tries not to laugh. 

“Depends who you ask.” Magnus says pointedly, and Alec looks back at him with the perfect arches that are his brows raised, an _oh really_ glinting in his eyes.

“Wait,” Luke blubbers confusedly as he peeks behind them and points at their hidden, joined hands, “What the hell is this!” he demands drunkenly, “How’d you know my geologist friend?!”

“Um,” Alec says, blinking, because he definitely didn’t have the foresight to craft a lie, not when he was too busy grinning at Magnus like a lovesick fool, “Um,”

“We met in New York a long time ago, Luke.” Magnus supplies the truth, “The night before I came to Iceland for my field research.”

“Oh my god,” Luke gasps, throwing both arms around their shoulders, and he is _definitely_ drunk, “Is this one of those missed connection things?!”

Simon’s eyes bug out, a hand on his mouth. “Oh my god, it is! It totally is!”

Alec looks at Magnus pointedly—_you really had to tell him the truth?_—to which Magnus only grins back—_you mean you’re not enjoying this?_ Luke gushes over them both, a stuttering mess of how he’s so happy for the both of them as if anything about this is remotely close to a relationship, but they don’t have the head or the heart to parse through whatever _this is_ tonight.

“Do the ring road drive together!” Luke exclaims, “You both are literally going on same seven-day trip in different vehicles. That is so stupid and so unsafe!”

Alec whips his head towards Magnus’ direction. “You are?”

Magnus raises a brow back. “_You_ are?”

Alec rolls his eyes, but the teasing smile on his mouth betrays his true sentiment. “No, Magnus, I’m just going to sit in my apartment and twiddle my thumbs.”

Magnus turns to Andrew, smirking. “Do all directors have attitudes?”

Andrew snickers, finishing the last bits of his beer. “Just the Academy Award winning ones.”

Alec laughs incredulously. “Hey!”

“Do the ring road drive together!” Luke exclaims again, and now he’s joined by Simon who is also inebriated beyond compare. The table begins to chant, and Magnus can’t help but laugh at the sight and sound of it. 

Alec turns to Magnus. “Look, I don’t want to impose—” 

“Come with me.” Magnus says, no time wasted, no beating around the bush. He smiles like he means it. 

Alec, as with everything Magnus says or does, softly smiles. “Okay.”

“Good.” Magnus grins, holding Alec’s hand even tighter, “We leave tomorrow.”


End file.
